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The White Snake (One Good Deed)To her people, the queen was a prophet. To her enemies, she was a witch. She smiled across the table at the visiting dignitaries, all of whom shifted in their seats, unwilling to meet her gaze.
“As I was saying,” one of the lords addressed his dinner plate. “Our carriages were molested during our journey, and our valuables taken. If her majesty could offer a donation, it would be immensely appreciated.”
The queen smiled, popping a glazed cherry into her mouth. “The only molesting of your carriages is that they must carry a liar. You lost your riches in the gambling houses long before coming here.”
The man blushed, sinking down in his chair. His wife turned to him with a stony expression. The queen tittered and turned her attention to the next visitor, who quailed under her gaze.
A young servant girl, whose name was Blanche, observed all this from the corner of the room, as she did every night. Once the queen and her guests were finished with their me
On Seeing without SightPATIENT 1 - a young boy of ten-twelve years; was discharged from hospital one week after operation. He is in his bedroom, surrounded by wooden objects and shapes on paper.
BOY: Depth? What is depth?
DOCTOR: Depth is the third dimension, other than length and width. (motions with hands)
BOY (bemused): Dimension?
DOCTOR (holds drawing of square and a wooden cube): This drawing has two dimensions: length and width. This wooden cube has three, including height.
BOY (struggles to reach wooden sphere): This is depth? (holds sphere with both hands, ogling)
DOCTOR: No, that is roundness. The sphere has depth, though.
BOY: I don't understand.
PATIENT 2 - a young male slightly older than Patient 1. He is in a hospital bed, preoperative.
DOCTOR (presses wooden cube and sphere into patient's hands): Can you tell what these shapes are?
BabydollPropping my daughter against the towel on my shoulder, I rhythmically pat her back. Nevaeh's just had her second bottle of the day, and try as I might, I still can't get her to burp. Today is no different, and in the end I give up, wipe her small round mouth, and pop her in the bouncer for a while. It's the electric kind, with a soft lullaby and swinging motion, so I know she'll be entertained while I get on with the mountain of washing that needs to be folded.
You wouldn't think just two people could make so much washing, but ever since her dad had left me, it seemed like the washing pile had grown larger instead of smaller. Despite the lullaby, I make conversation with her as I fold - it seems to me that it's the best way to develop her speech, for her to hear it. She's such a good, quiet baby, I often wonder how long until she starts making more noise.
By the time I've reduced "mount fold-me" to a mere foothill, she's asleep, so I leave her in the bouncer and dash out to check the m
Narrador : Esta historia empieza días antes de navidad, que es una...
Uri : Pos hace poco, no? .-.
Narrador : ...Sí, ahora... dejame seguir contando! D:
Uri : Mejor ya pasa a los hechos..
Narrador : Ok 7-7 , todo empieza en ...
-Aparece una escena del iglú de la PB-
Narrador : Oh, VAMOS! 7-7
En el iglú de la PB
Todos : -hablando, jugando, practicando, lo que sea-
Fany : ...FELIZ HANUKKAH
Uri : AHHHHH! D: -le pega-
Cadence : Es Hanukkah?
Fany : No
Todos : ... -la persiguen-
Fany : -corriendo- AHHHHH! D:
Narrador : Eso no pasó! D:
Uri : Lo se, solo quiero volver esto más divertido! :3
Narrador : 7-7 , sigamos con la historia que...
Uri : BAH! Ya mejor pasa a lo del recital navideño, que esto me aburre! -Q-
Narrador : Ok, entonces empecemos con...
Fany : EL RECITAL NAVIDEÑO!
Cadence : Que recital?
Valentina : Habrá un recital navideño para conseguir fondos para el orfanato
Franky : Y nosotros vamos a ... participar?
Fany : Si alcanzan, sí
Cadence : No estoy convencida de que...
Aurora : Saldran en TV
Cadence : A UN LADO, QUIERO SER MÁS FABULOSA QUE GLITTERPANTS! D: -avienta a todos-
Keishly : ...Nos destruirá a todos! :v
Uri : ._. -le pega a Keishly-
Keishly : ;-;
Narrador : Cadence Nunca dijo eso!
Uri : Claro que sí! ;-;
Narrador : Ok? ._. , oye, tu sólo me interrumpes!
Uri : Nope, Nope, Nope
Narrador : Mejor sigamos, que sino nunca voy a termi...
Narrador : ASH! , bueno, mejor sigamos con lo que pasó en ese recital...
En la audición del Recital Navideño
Todos : -formados-
Cadence : NUNCA MENCIONARON AUDICIONES!
Todos : CLARO QUE SÍ!
Aurora : En el camino
Tink : Exacto
Uri : Pero tú no nos escuchaste!
Dierctora de la audición : -sale- EMPIEZAN LAS AUDICIONES! ASÍ QUE PASÉ QUIEN SEA!
Durante las audiciones
Johan : -haciendo malabares- Tatataratatataratatatara -se cae- Auch! ;-;
Directora : SIGUENTE!
Uri : -cantando disfrazada de reno- You know Dasher, an Dancer, and Prancer, and Vixen ...
Directora : SIGUIENTE!
Uri : 7-7 -se va-
Fany : -cantando- Con mi burrito sabanero voy camino de Belen!
Directora : Me gusta la canción, pero... SIGUIENTE!
Fany : Pero... quiero participar, como... árbol de navidad?
Directora : No
Fany : Ok ;-; ... -se va-
Aurora : -tocando el teclado y cantando-
Acting nice and gentle,
she prepared for me a wonderful dinner.
As soon as I took my bite, she smirked...
As my consciousness fades, I start having a dream about
a fairy tale I read in the past. My time has frozen.
Directora : ...Estaremos en contacto...
Con la PB y Cadence
Cadence y Franky : -cantando La Nieve es Genial-
Directora : Ok, ustedes estarán
Todos : YAY!
En el iglú de la PB
Keishly : Y si compramos muérdago?
Uri : Para?
Valentina : Pista : Cadence, Franky, Muérdago...
Uri : Ohh... ya se para que -u-
Aurora : Saben que significa?
Fany : De que las uvas no son buenas para la digestion?
Uri : No, lo del muérdago!
Fany : Ohh... ya sé! -saca muérdago-
Tink : De donde lo sacaste?
Fany : De las cosas inmencionables de mi cuarto, y a eso me refiero a mi block de dibujo -lo cuelga- A esperar!
Petey y G Billy : ... -se paran bajo el muerdago accidentalmente- ... -lo ven- ... -se van-
Fany : Ok, mal lugar para ponerlo -lo quita-
BelligerentDrunken sparks, blood-thirsty.
And I can no longer see in singular colors. Everything is a blurred swoon, rippled motion. Ghosts taking shape in the faces of my friends. My words come out like play-doh, like an infant’s first garbled croon. An ineffective attempt at communication to say the least.
It is unlikely they will understand or comprehend or even stop to listen but still I spit and slather sideways sentences. Mouthing shouts of unintelligible inability. I grasp and ache for what I cannot say. I do not have the words.
The Marquise For as long as I can remember, my grandmother has never been very talkative. And yet, her thoughts were hardly idle and she always found a way to reach me, to say more than words could tell. I suppose that’s why when bedtime drew near, she would have infinite stories to tell me. Saving her words like pennies in a jar, she hoarded treasure troves of wisdom, excitement, and mystery in the form of fables and songs.
No matter how fast I grew up, no two bedtime stories sounded the same. Playful stories of young animals gave way to legends of magic, of beautiful damsels and errant men, and of robbers and sorcerers as I grew older. One night as we sat together by the hearth of our home, she told me a story she had been told as a child. Like any rite of passage, it had to happen whether I liked it or not. I was no longer a little girl and it was time for me to face a world that wasn't so gentle.
Her last tale was the scariest one yet. That
Locket SirensIf there's something I'm not supposed to be doing, I've forgotten. The locket rests, heavy and cold, on my palm. I shiver, gooseflesh prickling my bare arms as the wind shifts course. In a frenzied game of tag, the curls I slaved over this morning dance and flatten across my face and I squint, trying to see through the thick locks. The locket hums again, haunted, and grows colder still. Frowning, I flip my palm upside down, trying to rid it of metal. The chain binds my fingers closed. The locket doesn't budge, but hangs instead from the gap between my life and heart lines. A pain, like pinching and releasing the skin, pricks across the flexes of my hand.
"You can't let it go now, Lees," Koto whispers beside me, his chrome-tinted eyes bulging and riveted to the necklace entangling me. There's a sheen to his lips I've never seen before; as I watch, his tongue sweeps across them again. A nervous habit.
Despite myself, I chuckle--a clipped, haughty sound that falls from behind my teeth lik
Death BeadsThe lights were bright and she closed her eyes. A loud crashing noise stung her ears. The sound vibrated her ear drum and was almost deafening.
Her eyes fluttered for a moment. She was standing though she didn’t know for how long. A light with no obvious source filled the room and she shied away; her eyes forced to dilate. Her senses were accosted from all sides and she wanted nothing more than to crumble to the ground.
It was harrowing, to say the least.
Light reflected off the four white walls. They were perfect and clean; no dust or distasteful nicks to speak of. Along the right wall was a large, metallic table indented with four questionable dump bins. Was she in a buffet line?
Her blurry vision cleared and she could see just to her left a small, metal stand on wheels. In one tray was a DVD player kept in good condition with title-less, black DVD cases stacked along its sides. On top of the stand was a 32” flat-screen TV. Its cord was wrapped into a circle and pl
When Summer EndsThere was a place in the world where all flotsam eventually drifted to. All the jewel-studded goblets of the royal ships, the colorful plumage of ladies’ hats; the torn flags attached to planks of wood, all the way to spices and tea and the carefully crafted fashion dolls that seemed a bit too real for personal comfort. One way or another, the wind would blow, the waves would dance, and the planet would turn so that all nature’s might would send the floating junk to a cluster of islands in the southern seas.
It was after a terrifying storm had raged in the north; the islands were waiting for their usual haul, and were beginning to see the glints of rum bottles, when a lump of cloth clinging to driftwood washed ashore.
After stirring a few times, the lump stood.
He was a man of advanced years, with eyes shining fiercely like a hawk’s. His hair and scraggly nest of beard carried bits of ocean that forever rid them of their natural color. By his rude demeanor he might ha
Blackout Days (bit 1) I remember the Blackout Days, when I was young and machines thrummed. Dark days, yes, but there was the tiniest streak of light on the horizon called hope. Baseball players wore black uniforms; it was easier to see them against the floodlights. We didn’t have pets; anything was considered fair game for the table in those lean times. But we kept the machines running, and focused on that strip of light on the horizon.
Looking back now after so many years, it’s amazing that we took it all in stride. But it was just the way things were. I was twelve when I began work in the factory, my schooling done. But I was proud; I was doing something important. I was feeding the machines, making sure they never stopped. I didn’t really know at the time what might happen if they stopped, but I knew it was something bad. It was every citizen’s duty to contribute, to keep those machines working. I was glad to do it, even though my hearing is diminished now from the no
It's Burning Down Anyway"You shouldn't play with matches," she said. "You'll hurt yourself."
I lit a cigarette - with a lighter - and remembered Annie Venter telling me that in the eighth grade as I lit matches behind the school. I had stared at her and lit the whole matchbook on fire, and then I had dropped it in the grass. She made me stomp it out.
I stood on the porch of my apartment, listening to the rain and staring out at the fog and the clouds and thinking that somewhere out there, Annie Venter was probably sleeping, not thinking about the time she told some stupid kid not to play with matches. I flicked the lighter on and off a few times to see if it would feel the same way the matches had all those years ago, but it didn't.
The smoke curled above me in the cold air, a visible metaphor for addiction as it hung off me. Everything in my life smelled like that anymore: like ashes.
I dropped the cigarette on the deck and I stared at the small red ember, letting it burn and smoke, letting it become